


The Job

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Burdens of Responsibility [3]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, crack with feelings, spoilers for Rivers of London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Someone or something is running amok in Covent Garden; Nightingale and Seawoll need to put their differences aside and work together.  Which they do. Until it all goes horribly wrong again.





	The Job

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on from previous work; covers the action of Rivers of London.  
Thanks to PerchingOwl for swift and amazing beta-ing.  
Title from Rivers of London

DCI Alexander Seawoll

What the _fuck_ had he been thinking? Icily polite, he’d been going for, cool and distant; instead he might as well have broadcast it across the wider fucking Met. “I don’t care who you’re fucking” he’d said. Shouted. To Nightingale. In public. While his new bloody constable was standing next to him. Sometimes he woke up sweating just thinking about it.

***

DCI Thomas Nightingale

They’d met since that night, of course. There was the regrettable scene at the mortuary, which of _course_ Peter had been present to witness. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to have put him off wanting to join the Folly.

Under the circumstances, Nightingale had expected awkwardness, a degree of unpleasantness even, but the level of vitriol that Seawoll had directed against him had taken him aback. Whilst he could try to convince himself that it was not _wholly_ deserved, when he dwelt on it alone sometimes, he thought that perhaps it might be.

The next time they’d met, Nightingale had been securing the non-mundane elements of the scene at the Coopertown incident, and Seawoll had been in charge of running the exterior, so, whilst working alongside each other, there had not been the opportunity to exchange more than curt nods of acknowledgement in passing as the forensic teams had done their jobs. For which Nightingale was grateful.

Now there had been another murder, with the same MO. Both Peter and Seawoll’s constable May had been intimately involved again, which was rapidly ruling out coincidence as a factor and, as Grant’s and May’s senior officers, Nightingale and Seawoll were expected to debrief them together.

Nightingale hadn’t been alone with Seawoll since the night in the coach house. As he entered one of the shabbier conference rooms in Belgravia, he found Seawoll there before him, seated and reviewing a file.

‘Inspector.’

Seawoll looked up briefly, nodded, and returned to the papers he was reviewing.

Summarily dismissed, Nightingale hesitated a moment, then drew up a chair. Seawoll continued reading, once making a brief note, and once glancing at his watch, then he finished what he was doing and closed the file.

‘Is there anything further that I ought to be aware of?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Nothing new, I don’t think. We need to find out what the fuck is doing this and soon.’ He paused. ‘Do you have _any_ ideas?’

‘None as yet, I’m afraid. This is not something I’ve come across before; I haven’t been able to find any references in the relevant material we keep. I will continue looking, of course, but there is rather a lot of it…’ It sounded feeble even to Nightingale’s ears.

‘Looking at books, eh? A fat fucking lot of good that is going to do us when my constables, and yours I might add, seem to be the target for this fucking thing. What exactly are you going to do to protect them?’

‘What am I going to…?’ Nightingale began; the tension was starting to tell on him, and he felt his temper slipping. He took a breath. ‘As you are aware,’ he said, speaking very precisely, ‘I have a reciprocal obligation to that of my apprentice. Just as he is bound to me, I took an oath to protect him, at the cost of my own life if that is what it takes. And it is not an oath I take lightly I assure you.’ 

One part of Nightingale’s brain cringed at the melodrama of his reply, but another needed Seawoll to know that he took his duty both as Peter’s master and his senior officer deadly seriously. ‘All that I can practically do for him right now is to teach him to the best of my capabilities, as quickly as we both are able, in order that he is able to defend himself and others when the time comes.’ He paused. ‘It is for you, of course, to decide on the level of duty you extend to your own constables.’

There was a beat, as this sank in, and-

‘If you’re suggesting for one _fucking_ second that I am in any way less concerned about the welfare of my coppers-‘ thundered Seawoll

‘No, no,’ Nightingale made a placatory gesture. ‘That’s not what I was implying. I just... I apologise if that is how it seemed. I’m just not..,’ he floundered helplessly, ‘not terribly good at expressing myself at times.’

‘No,’ said Seawoll with a deadly calm. ‘I’m aware of that.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Alex. I– ‘

‘You can either address me as Inspector, _Inspector,_ or – if you absolutely must – Alexander.’ Seawoll cut across Nightingale as if he had not spoken. There was no rancour in the words, but they were emphatically final.

They sat in silence until Peter and PC May were escorted in.

Nightingale tried to concentrate on the meeting, and bring his expertise, such as it was, to the experiences reported by both constables from the crime scene. But he was preoccupied by the scene that had passed before, and the implication that he was somehow failing in his duty. However much he tried to suppress it and concentrate on the matter at hand, he felt that his distraction must be evident, both in the debrief and the autopsy which followed, and he cursed himself for it.

Later, on their arrival back at the Folly, he returned to the library, after dismissing Peter, determined to do more, go further, to prove to Seawoll that he was doing as much as he possibly could to assist with the investigation and bring it to a close without further killings. He could sense Peter’s perplexity as to his mood, and knew that he really ought to give an explanation for his behaviour. But if he did not have a satisfactory explanation for it himself, then what on earth could he say to his apprentice that would excuse it.

He cursed himself again as he mounted the stairs to the library and overheard the concern, as Peter said to Molly behind him: ‘How should I know? You know him better than I do.’

Alongside the matter of determining exactly what was behind the murders in Covent Garden, great though that was, there was something else. His problem was that the issue he was wrestling with was something that he could barely comprehend, something that he no longer had the emotional vocabulary for, if indeed he ever had. The thing that he thought - knew - he ought to have done better he was now dimly perceiving might have meant that something else, but he couldn’t quite articulate what, might also have been better. 

But as he grappled with these concepts they slipped from his grasp. The unwonted effort of dealing with issues as murky as these was too great, so he abandoned them, and focussed his energies entirely into training Peter to ensure, so far as he was able, that no harm came to either of them.

***

DCI Alexander Seawoll

Seawoll tried, in general, not to be petty about things - little matters are for little minds after all - but he hadn’t found the wherewithal to prevent Nightingale’s flailing during the first conversation they'd had since, well, that night. It was irresistible not to let him squirm a bit. He deserved it.

But Seawoll wasn’t playing any games; he wasn’t trying to engineer any sort of reaction or result. He’d get over it in time, like people always did. If he was completely honest, and he always tried to be honest with himself, most of the time he didn’t regret what happened; he regretted that Nightingale had been such a fucking idiot about it, but there we go. Such is life.

After the first debrief they’d been obliged to do in tandem, they’d been thrown together more and more, the lot of them, by this Covent Garden nonsense, including him and his new apprentice, who’s a cheeky bugger alright, but, he’ll admit, has a spine of steel, it’s clear to see. 

The atmosphere between him and Nightingale improved, as it had to, since they were both senior officers working a case and both professionals. And as the case went on, over weeks and then months with no clear progress in sight, and it became habitual for them to be working together so frequently, Seawoll was even getting used to seeing Nightingale without getting any flashes of that night in the coach house of his nick, and the small lick of fire in his belly when he did so. (And what nick has a _coach house_, for fuck’s sake?)

So things were _approaching_ getting back to normal, whatever that was, and that was fine with him. He didn't need any more complication in his life and it was clear that whatever was going on with Nightingale was very fucking complicated indeed, and so he decided it would be best to let go of whatever interest he might have had in exploring it further. 

And then the silly bugger had gone and got himself shot. And Seawoll didn’t even have time to think about that, apart from to make sure that when Nightingale got to UCH, his doctor friend was already there, by arranging a squad car to get him down from Finchley, doing a ton blues and twos along the A1.

Though fuck knows why, because he dealt with stomachs or some such and would be no fucking use with a bullet wound, but he knew about the things that Nightingale knew about, and if it would help in any way, then Seawoll would make sure the doctor was with him. Either way, Nightingale was in the best possible hands and there was nothing more he could do for him.

On the other hand, what he could try to do was save the fucking day. Again.

When he and Stephanopoulos had realised with horror that, with Nightingale down, PC Peter Grant was the most qualified officer in the Met to deal with whatever the fuck it was they were supposed to be dealing with, the only thing they could think to do in the time available was to try to get him out of the bloody stupid mess they’d all created, in case – God forbid – he was needed later. 

And then it was time to head off Folsom. Seawoll couldn’t help but recall the last conversation he’d had about Folsom with Nightingale some six months or so earlier. True to form as ever, the DAC didn’t disappoint. ‘Is he to be trusted?’ and ‘I swear sometimes he did this to spite me.’ were the highlights.

Seawoll kept his voice to a carefully neutral ‘Sir’ throughout and was dismissed in due course to restatement Grant. He’d done his best to keep May out of it, and he would have protected her and Grant both if he’d been able, but he couldn’t risk getting bumped off the case altogether and letting Folsom appoint his own cronies to step in and take over.

Seawoll had heard rumblings at the higher levels, and, despite what had happened between him and Nightingale, or had not, Seawoll was not going to let the Folly be compromised on his watch.

He thought it would be the right thing to do to at least let Nightingale know that. When they’d finished the operation at the Royal Opera House that evening, he’d go to the hospital and tell him.

***

DCI Thomas Nightingale

They ended up in UCH together anyway, only a few rooms apart, admitted within 48 hours of each other.

It was some days before Nightingale learned from Peter the full extent of what had happened, including the forced involvement of Seawoll in the play staged by Mr Punch, or whatever it was. Nightingale still wasn't sure he understood exactly what had taken place, or how, nor that he ever would.

Nonetheless, once Nightingale discovered that Seawoll was recovering so close by, he half-expected that he would seek Nightingale out. But he did not, and Nightingale was disappointed. And then he chastised himself for… he didn’t quite know what.

Nightingale didn’t know what the effects of the tranquiliser on Seawoll would be, let alone that of what Abdul had called his semi-sequestration, and whether in fact he remained incapacitated. He hadn’t asked Abdul specifically about that. Peter had mentioned in passing that Seawoll was unlikely to be able to work for a number of months which sounded serious enough that perhaps he was as yet unable to leave his hospital bed.

Nightingale, once able to sit up for several successive days, called an orderly one morning, once rounds were over, and persuaded him to wheel him to the entrance of Seawoll’s room. 

Seawoll was there, evidently not bedridden still, as he sat motionless on the edge of the hospital bed, with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring beyond them to the floor. He looked as dreadful as Nightingale felt.

Nightingale expected that his entrance into the room, which was not quiet, would rouse Seawoll. But, while Nightingale was aware from the slight straightening of the spine and increased tension in the shoulders, that his presence was registered, Seawoll did not turn to face him, nor acknowledged him in any way.

Nightingale waited perhaps thirty seconds longer, then called for the orderly to take him back to his own room.


End file.
